


Thedas Days and Thedas Nights

by athenaiskarthagonensis



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: F/M, Fantasizing, M/M, Masturbation, One Shot, One Shot Collection, Pegging, Prostitution, Self Loathing, Sexual Tension, Some feels, dark themes, some smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:55:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 5,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25734658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athenaiskarthagonensis/pseuds/athenaiskarthagonensis
Summary: A collection of mostly very short one-shots I wrote ages ago. Different pairings, some of them decidedly non-canon (but where's the fun in keeping things to canon, anyway?) and most of them originally written as gift fic for friends in the fandom. I decided it was time to archive them all here to keep them in one place.Each chapter is a different, self-contained little story; see the header notes for any relevant commentary on each one. Some (most) are fairly explicit, some are feelsy, some are a little of both... it's a mixed bag. A fruit basket, really. Everyone likes those.
Relationships: Anders/Female Hawke, Dorian Pavus/Cullen Rutherford, Female Hawke/Nathaniel Howe, Fenris/Dorian Pavus, Nathaniel Howe/Male Warden, Nathaniel Howe/Sebastian Vael, Zevran Arainai/Male Warden, female Hawke/Fenris
Comments: 2
Kudos: 36





	1. Tension (Nate Howe/Sebastian Vael)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know Nathaniel Howe spent a lot of time in his youth in Starkhaven? And very likely knew Sebastian Vael, during Sebastian's wilder days? Isn't that an interesting premise.... (A touch of E rate for fantasizing but mostly just some sexual tension.)

The young Fereldan was fascinating. His glossy dark hair like a spill of shadow, his eyes grey as stormclouds – and a tempestuous habitual expression to match them – and his clever hands, clever fingers, which sent arrows arcing toward their targets with as much skill and facility as Sebastian himself possessed.

At first, the youngest Vael had told himself that Ser Rodolphe’s squire was fascinating merely for the archery, a skill which Sebastian, after all, valued highly, but which was not as commonly practiced among his peers as were the skills of blade and shield and lance.

But after waking from a dream in which the slim fingers which had circled his cock were not the smooth, white, perfumed fingers of the noble ladies he so often pursued but the stronger and rougher ones of a grey-eyed man from the south, he’d been forced to admit the truth of his interest. He’d stroked himself to completion in the overheated aftermath of that dream, all the while imagining the intensity of that silver-fire gaze upon him; he had shuddered silently as he’d spilled over his fist.

The wood of his bow whined as he bent it to string it; the reverse-twisted linen settled into its nock and sprang to tautness with a satisfying shiver. Sebastian stroked his fingers down the smooth string absently, enjoying the sensuous feel of it, enjoying that shuddering tension. The bow’s recurves stretched themselves above and below, arching swan’s wings of fine-grained wood at once soft and hard, like muscled flesh.

“A fine bow.” The voice was unmistakable, a honey-and-velvet tenor; the accent, too, was not of the Marches. It ran down Sebastian’s neck like cool water, raising the hair at his nape. He had hoped Nathaniel would visit the archery grounds today. Sebastian turned slowly, aiming his smile, which had felled so many ladies already, as aptly as he’d ever aimed an arrow.

It struck home, or so he hoped; Nathaniel’s neck bobbed as he swallowed hard. “A family heirloom,” he answered as if casually, his fingers still caressing the long length of string; he noted the way Nathaniel’s eyes seem to cling to the motion and his smile widened. He reached out with that same hand, as though to stroke Nathaniel’s cheek or his beautiful dark hair. The grey eyes went briefly wary but Sebastian was pleased to see the man, nervy and proud as a thoroughbred horse though he might be, did not flinch away but waited to see what the Starkhavener would do.

He plucked a bit of feather from where it had caught in the raw-silk lustre of a thin twined braid. “Fletching this morning, were you?” he asked, laughing quietly. He leaned closer, just a bit, just a breath; Nathaniel seemed almost to sway toward him in turn. They were far too close together by now, two lean shadows already commingled as one on the packed earth of the range. “Your arrows always fly so true, strike so deep,” Sebastian breathed into that increasingly fraught, humid little space. “Perhaps you’ll show me your tricks, how you work your clever fingers to such effect.”

“Perhaps,” was all Nathaniel said in return, leaning back and breaking the moment. But Sebastian noted with satisfaction that the Fereldan’s voice had been husky and his fingers, as he strung his own bow, trembled.


	2. Friction (F!Hawke/Fenris)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was inspired by something which actually happened when I was playing at one point. F!Hawke, romancing Fenris, and suddenly while fighting some darkspawn I saw his health bar drop precipitously -- only to find him facing down an ogre all by himself. It made me wonder how Hawke would feel, having seen someone else she loved die in that same situation. (Feels, but not quite smut. M Rated)

The manor door hasn’t even clicked into place behind them before she’s turning, clinging to his shoulders and pushing him back against the wall. Her armored thigh is hard between his legs and she muffles his surprised sound with her mouth, dragging at his lower lip with her teeth until his mouth opens and she can flick her tongue into him. The wet, rough drag of friction makes her moan in her throat; it’s close to what she wants, it reminds her of what she wants, but it’s not enough, none of this is enough. She wants his skin on her skin, wants to be surrounded by him, wrapped in him. She wants to overlap his space and remind herself that he’s real and he’s alive and he’s with her.

She can feel him responding to her sudden fervor; she has him pressed against the wall but she hasn’t trapped his hands and they’re on her now, touching whatever parts of her he can reach between the plates of her armor. His leggings are thin enough that she can feel the burning heat of him there and she melts into something liquid and needy, pressing herself against him, rocking herself against his thigh.

His curse is low, and rough, and in a foreign language, but unmistakable all the same.

She pulls away but only far enough to start tearing at the fastenings of his armor. Her fingers are unwontedly clumsy and she hisses in frustration as they slip on the buckle holding his breastplate in place, aware that somewhere behind her back he’s working at his gauntlets. Swearing herself now, she drags her own gauntlets off too and drops them with a careless clatter before resuming the attack. Stripped of encumbrance, it’s easier. When all the straps are hanging slack she curls her fingers over the metal plate and pulls at it, not gently.

His hiss is one of pain; even in the throes of the desperate neediness which has gripped her she recognizes the difference and pulls back at once, body stilling. She’s all but huddled in front of him, curled in on herself protectively, off-balance and mutely watching as he removes his own breastplate with a wince he cannot hide. Almost rueful, he tugs aside the padded layers he wears underneath and the breath catches in her throat when she sees the livid bruise, black and ugly, spreading along his ribs.

She’s shivering now, shaking where she stands, and it isn’t from the pure, untampered lust which had driven her only a moment earlier. She cannot stop trembling, her bones are jerking in her skin and her teeth are chattering together like she’s taken cold.

“Hawke.” His voice is low and warm as velvet and so, so unutterably gentle. She nearly bursts into tears just from the sound of her name in those tones. “Hawke, what is the matter?” They’ve both of them taken worse injuries than this before, of course, but she cannot tear her eyes from the dark discoloration of his skin. When his thumb brushes across her lips before he moves to cup her cheek it is nearly startling and she jerks her eyes up to his face.

His expression is so kind, so open, that it nearly undoes her all over again. Her throat is so dry that when she swallows hard there is an audible click. “Earlier,” she says, forcing the words out before her clattering teeth. “I looked up and saw… you… the ogre….” She has to stop for a moment, swallowing sickness and avoiding his eyes.

She had looked across the battlefield even as another hurlock fell dead at her feet, and seen Fenris looking so very small, so very vulnerable, in front of the roaring bulk of the charging ogre. Her vision had gone red at the edges and the last thing she remembered was the sound of her own shriek of repudiation as she’d flung herself across the blood-slick stones.

She had come back to herself only slowly, her entire body heaving with gasping breaths and the blood thundering so loud in her veins it was all she could hear; the creature had been lying dead in front of her with one of her daggers in its eye. She had driven the blade all the way into the creature’s brain; three fingers of its length protruded from the back of its skull.. Varric would later tell her she’d done it in a single blow. (“Shit, Hawke, I’ve never seen anything like that before, not even when you took down the Arishok!”)

“The last time I saw one of those monsters,” she says now, her naked hands grasping in the air in front of her as if to pull forth the words she needs. Her voice is hoarse. “Carver… I just… I can’t lose you too, Fenris!” she bursts out finally. “I can’t, I can’t…!”

He catches her hands in his and pulls her in against him, even though it must hurt to have her there. “You won’t,” he says into her hair. “You won’t. I’m not going anywhere, Hawke.”

The sound she makes isn’t quite a sob, for all that her eyes are still dry. After a few moments of letting her just stand and shudder helplessly against him, Fenris bends carefully and scoops her up against his chest, steadfastly ignoring his own injury and the fact that she’s still mostly armored and this couldn’t possibly be comfortable even if he wasn’t hurt.

She thinks a little muzzily that she should protest, make him set her down, insist on walking, insist he take care of his ribs and not of her – but it feels too good to be nestled in his arms as he carries her through the foyer and the main hall, then up the staircase to the second level. She lets him strip the rest of her armor off, compliant as a child; he tucks her into the bed and slides in behind her, whispering quiet soothing nonsense into her ear.

She feels secure here, safe and warm. It’s not exactly the burning hunger she’d felt earlier, the need to wrap herself in his vibrant, living warmth and convince herself he was still alive; but it’s almost better than the sex would have been.

Her last thought as sleep takes her is that anyway, there’ll be time enough for that tomorrow. He’s not going anywhere, after all.


	3. Impatience (F!Hawke/Anders)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Hawke/Anders pegging scene no one asked for! Except we all really asked for that one, didn't we? (So convenient that dildos exist in Thedas by canon, isn't it?) (Obviously E rated)

The leather straps of the harness settled around her hips almost as comfortably as her baldric sat on her chest, but the harness was much more fun.

She knelt between his spread and bent legs on the chaise longue, grinning wickedly. Anders was already flushed and sweaty from their earlier enthusiastic preparations, his cock swollen and leaking against his flat stomach. What an absolutely beautiful sight he was all spread out and needy like this; the hollow ache between her thighs throbbed slickly at the mere sight, insistently reminding her how desperately she needed to be filled.

With a certain amount of relief, Hawke slid one thick, blunt end of their new toy up into herself, groaning almost involuntarily with the feeling of fullness. The other end of the toy jutted proudly out in front of her, and she saw Anders’s eyes following it with open, unrestrained hunger.

“Just a little something that made me think of you,” he’d said earlier, handing her the box almost casually – but the look in his eye when she’d opened it and seen the contents had been nothing short of purely wicked.

It was apparently a Qunari innovation, of all things, this smooth double-headed rod. Hawke still had a soft spot for her own well-loved toy, of course; a sinuous thing of heavy Serault glass, it was clear but swirled through with strands of bright colors until it looked like a stick of sugar candy – and Anders certainly seemed to enjoy sucking on it, too.

But this was definitely an improvement in some ways, she decided as she settled the ‘saartoh nehrappan’ more comfortably within herself, unable to keep from squirming against it in search of the friction her body was demanding. Watching her avidly, Anders quite nearly whimpered, and Hawke laughed merrily, stroking playful fingers down along his inner thigh. He quivered and trembled, hands tightening convulsively on the chaise back; and she slid one finger up inside him again, quirking it a bit and watching as his face clenched tight in pleasure.

“Impatient, sweetness?” she asked him teasingly, greasing up her lovely new cock thoroughly with her free hand. He was very, very ready for her, and she was not feeling at all inclined to wait any longer. 

“Don’t worry; it’s your turn now.”


	4. Hunger (M!Warden/Nate Howe)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which a Zevran-romancing Warden starts realizing maaaaybe that grey-eyed archer is pretty attractive, too. (Don't worry, endgame for this particular little concept would be a happy little polyam fam.) (E Rated)

Becoming a Warden meant, Wystan Amell had quickly discovered, that all of one’s hungers were multiplied.

It wasn’t such a problem – might even be termed a pleasure, in fact – when one’s eager, enthusiastic lover was close at hand. But when he wasn’t… Wystan groaned in frustration, staring up at the interlocking grey stones of his chamber ceiling, trying, without much success, to ignore the throbbing ache of arousal in his groin and just go back to sleep. It wasn’t as though he wasn’t exhausted, after all; they’d had a long day of it, fighting bandits in Amaranthine before making the long trek back to the Vigil. He’d barely taken the time to wash the road dust from his face and hands before falling into his very lonely, very empty bed.

Sighing finally, Wystan pushed down the coverlet and his smallclothes alike, taking his cock in hand. Just the touch was already a relief and he quite nearly bucked into the circle of his own fingers like it was a lover’s instead. Closing his eyes, he summoned up memories of Zevran – those lush, smiling lips, that smooth dark skin, hair like new wheat – and began to move his hand over himself slowly, a firm grip, almost mechanical, like the dwarven clockworks he’d seen in Orzammar. It wasn’t as though this had to be good; it only had to get the job done.

He groaned quietly, eyes of his mind firmly fixed on his fantasy. Those bright grey eyes, pale skin ruddied and tanned by the elements, hair like a slick spill of shadow… Wystan’s eyes flew open and he gasped. Somehow, the image of Zevran had replaced itself with Nathaniel, and it had been good. He paused a moment, hand stilling on his cock. Maybe he should feel guilty about how good it had been, he thought; but on the other hand, it was only a fantasy, right? It wouldn’t hurt anything, and Nathaniel was objectively an extremely attractive man. Zevran, of all people, who had taught Wystan to embrace sex with an open, playful joy, would understand attraction.

Mind made up, Wystan began once again to touch himself, this time deliberately allowing himself to dwell upon the face and figure of the archer. His fingers, Wystan decided, would be clever and nimble, callused just there from the bowstring; Nathaniel would drag those pads of roughness over the head of Wystan’s cock and he’d gasp and quiver with a sensation so intense it was just shy of pain. And his eyes would be intent, Wystan knew. Nathaniel gave his entire attention to everything he did; being the object of that focus would feel… indescribably good, as though Wystan were the momentary center of Nathaniel’s whole world. Sex with Zevran was often playful, full of laughter; he thought sex with Nathaniel would be fierce, intense. Wystan was breathing raggedly now, his hands moving over himself without finesse.

The archer’s skin, Wystan knew from the Keep baths, was lighter where the sun never touched; and it slid like fine Orlesian cambric over the broad muscles of his back and his stomach. And those muscles… abruptly, Wystan remembered that it had taken four men to subdue and capture Nathaniel; his head fell back against the pillows, neck arched into a straining column, as he imagined what it would be like to be borne backward and down, mastered by that wild, unexpected, glorious strength, Nathaniel riding him and gasping out his name.

Wystan’s cock pulsed in his hand as he came, a sweet thrill of pleasure seizing his muscles and shaking him in its grip. In the end, it had been the name that did it. Imagining his own name gasped out, Nathaniel’s velvet tenor roughened by need. His name, on Nathaniel’s lips.

“…oh, no,” Wystan said aloud, the implications of that suddenly slotting themselves into place in the aftermath of the extremely good orgasm. “Oh, shit.”


	5. Aftermath (Cullen/Dorian)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A touch of Cullrian, because why not. (More cute than anything.)

Dorian made it all the way across the battlements and into the library before realizing he was a little lighter than usual, his garb hanging a little more loosely across his chest.

He’d forgotten his baldric.

For a moment, hovering just inside the door, he considered just leaving it. It had been hard enough to make that walk this morning, to make himself take the more direct but also far more visible route. He’d left early, before most others would have woken, but Skyhold had already been stirring, all the same. By the time he made the return trip and left again, the number of eyes to see him would have duplicated and reduplicated.

But a forgotten baldric meant his personal grimoire had been forgotten also, and while his ensemble wouldn’t suffer much from the lack of a single item, his work would suffer without his notes.

“Kaffas,” Dorian muttered under his breath, turning on a heel and stalking back out into the cold morning air, spurs and buckles jangling almost musically in the near silence.

Surprisingly, Cullen wasn’t at his desk when Dorian shoved through the door. He paused in surprise; then rolled one shoulder in a sort of shrug and headed for the ladder. When his head crested the aperture and he caught sight of Cullen, Dorian quite nearly fell right back off.

Standing in a shaft of morning sunlight pouring through the hole in his ceiling, Cullen quite nearly glowed, looking like the spirit of some unbearably masculine sort of virtue. He was also completely nude – except for Dorian’s baldric draped over his shoulder and chest.

Swallowing hard against a surge of heat, Dorian somehow managed to clamber the rest of the way into the lofted bedroom. Cullen heard him and spun, face red as embrium.

“I – I – that is – well, you forgot this, and – ” he stammered, and Dorian laughed low in his throat, sauntering closer with the slow, rolling gait of a hunting beast.

“It suits you,” Dorian answered after a fraught second. “Though I do think you’re rather overdressed at the moment….”


	6. Slums (Dorian Pavus, dark themes)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now for something very, very different... per World of Thedas, young Dorian escaped from a very strict religious school and lost himself in the elven slums and dissolution, only to be found eventually by the man who would become his mentor, Gereon Alexis.
> 
> Themes of self-hatred, substance abuse, prostitution, homophobia in this one. Not a happy piece, fair warning.

You are happy. You are miserable. You are ecstatic. You are wretched.

Sickness roils in your gut and sits sour on your tongue. You chase it away with more wine, with the taste of the pretty boy’s mouth. He’s draped on you, his limbs as languid and heavy as yours, his eyes dark and pleasure-drugged. You tell yourself that he likes you, that he’s enjoyed your time, but you know you’ve paid him very well to pretend that. He likes your purse better than your prick.

You’ve pretended to enjoy it, too. Your purse is light and also you are the poorer for it.

You chose this oblivion and it is yours. You relish it with a twisted sort of pleasure. This is what you are, after all. This is what you are. These desires. You touch the pretty boy’s long hair, his pointed ears. He murmurs drowsily against you and stirs, rolling to bestride your hips. What is his name? They told you when you picked him. You don’t recall. It hardly matters. He will be whoever you need, whatever you want. That’s what you’ve paid him for.

You grope for the wine and your fingers are clumsy; the smeared glass rocks and falls, shattering across the floor. Wine spreads like blood on the flags and you laugh. It doesn’t matter. They burn something in this place, some herb with a sweet-smelling smoke that hangs in the air. You think it makes you drunk as the wine, and at least it does not taste of sharp vinegar.

The pretty boy catches your hand and sucks at your fingertips and you forget about the wine, about the sharp shards. Your eyes burn in the smoky air and your throat is raw but you laugh and bury your fingers in his hair, dragging his head down to kiss bruised-petal lips.

“Da mi basia mille, deinde centum,” you murmur and you laugh to think of such poetry in such a place. It is wasted but you think poetry is never wasted so you say it again.

He is such a pretty, pretty thing and you begin to waken to him again. You are scarcely alive but you can feel a little less dead for a while. You laugh and you forget about your bloodied knees, forget old men and their judging eyes, forget your father, your mother. Forget the future you were meant to have, and the past you already regret.

A voice in the doorway. “Aren’t you a little young for such a place?”

You look up. An older man, somehow familiar. Do you know him? Have you met him? One of those old men with their judgments, one of your father’s friends, no doubt. Senus severior. You do not think to wonder why he’s here; he’s been sent for you, no doubt. You laugh again, a wild thing, a young and free thing. You have nothing left to lose. You’ve lost it all, already. So you throw open your arms like some country lord, a common vulgatus with pretensions, welcoming an honored guest.

“Join me!” you declare resoundingly. “There’s wine enough for all, and my pretty boy has two hands to use! I’ve forgotten his name, but you can give him one you like.”

You wait for the man to yell, wait for the recriminations, the disgust. You wait for him to hate you as you know you should be hated. As you deserve.

Instead, he laughs.


	7. Return (F!Hawke/Fenris)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imagining Hawke waking up that first night after Fenris comes back to her, and remembering how things had gone the last time... I had feelings, and the feelings turned into smut. As they often do. (Feels and smut, E rate)

She woke up when the bed creaked under her, resettling as a weight left it. Her eyes shot open and she saw his body silhouetted against the hearth. A sinking sense of inevitability and déjà vu gripped her heart and squeezed it hard and tight, sucking the breath from her lungs.

“Fenris?” She hated how small her voice sounded; there was even a tiny tremble in it, and mentally she cursed herself for the weakness.

He whirled and she saw that this time, he was still naked, body striped and marked by her mouth, her hands and nails. “I was only stoking the fire,” he said quickly, gesturing with the poker in his hand. His face was soft and as open as she’d ever seen it. “I am not leaving.” Not this time, he didn’t add, but they both heard the words, anyway.

She flipped back the edge of the coverlet in invitation, smiling a little when his eyes fixed on her breasts and clung. “Come back to bed,” she told him. “We can warm things up, if you’re cold.”

“You are insatiable,” he accused, but she couldn’t help but notice how he dropped the poker back into its stand and returned with fair alacrity, all the same.

“Mmhmm,” she agreed contentedly, rolling to straddle his hips and gently pinning his wrists to the pillow. Her entire body ached with that pleasant pain which came of being well-fucked; her muscles twinged with the memory of exertion and the place between her legs had a tender sort of rawness to it which made itself known as she settled herself against him teasingly.

She didn’t care one bit; it was a good sort of ache, adding a little frisson of fresh sensation to the arousal already building itself up inside her again. She was still slick and wet from earlier, and Fenris’s cock hardened rapidly under her as her hips rocked and slid along its length, spreading that wetness over him. “Hawke…!” he gasped out, sounding almost surprised, but far from displeased; she bent and bit lightly at his throat, sliding her hands up from his wrists to twine their fingers together instead.

She felt hollow, needing him inside her again, aching to feel so full and hot and completed; fresh wetness slicked her thighs and her nipples tightened where they brushed his chest each time her hips shifted. Electricity shot through her at every point where their bodies touched. Maybe it was the lyrium, or maybe it was just him. Foreplay be damned; she wanted him, and now. She hadn’t waited three years, three long years sustained by only her own hands and toys and the memory of his body, to waste any time now!

“We,” she said quietly, shifting her hips again just so to guide him just where she most wanted him, sinking down over his cock as they both moaned in ragged unison, “are not leaving this bed again for, mmmm, at least a week. Maybe two.”


	8. Morning (Dorian/Fenris)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very short one featuring some sleepy morning sex between Dorian and Fenris; don't like the ship, don't read it. Thanks. (E rated)

Dorian muttered a sleepy, wordless denial and wrapped himself more tightly around Fenris as the elf stirred, trying to extricate himself from their shared bed and leave for his morning exercises; Fenris made a token sort of protest, a laughing half-struggle, but gave over easily enough in the end, turning in the circle of Dorian’s arms to face him.

Fenris’s mouth still tasted like the wine they’d shared before falling into bed and his lips were reddened by it as much as by the friction of Dorian’s mouth upon his, by the sharpness of teeth laved away by a quick and clever tongue; Dorian’s hips rocked idly as he kissed Fenris, languidly rubbing the hard length of his cock against the curve of Fenris’s hip until he felt the elf begin to waken to him and respond, his breath coming faster as he met and matched Dorian’s rhythm.

They were both deliciously sore from the night before, bodies still thrumming and sensitized with the memories of aching, almost ravening pleasure; this was not that, though it fulfilled a hunger of a different kind altogether. This was sleepy and slow, a tidal ebb and curl, lazy and still half-dreaming in one another’s arms as the mountain dawn poured over them like thin honey; it felt almost timeless, as though they might have rocked together thus for an Age’s turning or more.

But Fenris’s breathing caught and then sped, muscles going taut as he spilled between them; Dorian followed a moment later with a tearing groan, slippery wet heat spreading across their stomachs and hips.

“Good morning,” Dorian murmured, and was rewarded with a low, warm chuckle.


	9. Upside-Down (F!Hawke/Nate Howe)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is just for cutes -- and really, they should have let Hawke interact more with Nathaniel than just that one quest. Mostly because I love Nathaniel. (No smut, just cute)

“Hawke?” Nathaniel called, stepping into the airy pathways of the half-overgrown garden behind the ridiculous house she called home. 

“Up here!” came her voice. He peered about, but didn’t immediately see her, until a sudden shower of leaves and sticks from the twisted up old oak tree just ahead brought his eyes, yes, upward. And there she was, barefoot and wearing a pair of men's trousers she'd cut off short and ragged and a oversized chemise which he was fairly certain had been filched right out of his own baggage.

“Just keeping in practice,” she said, hopping and shimmying with clever grace down to a lower branch even as he watched.

“Because you never know when you’ll need to climb a tree,” he said dryly.

“Exactly!” She was now at the lowest of the thick branches which spiraled up from the thick trunk, which still put her up above his head. He had to wonder how she’d even gotten up into the tree in the first place, given how high even the lowest branch was, and grudgingly admitted it was a fairly impressive feat.

“Oh oh! Come here! There’s something I’ve always wanted to try!” she requested, and he sighed. 

“That sentence is one I’ve come to distrust,” he told her, but he came closer all the same, knowing from experience it was easier to just do as she asked and not fight.

“You’ll like this. I think. Probably, anyway,” she laughed, shifting positions until she was sitting on the branch. Her knees now hooked solidly over the wood, with a little whoop she let herself drop backward until she was hanging head-downward, her face now just about at the same level as his own.

“Upside-down kiss!” she declared, catching his face between her hands and pulling him forward. It was awkward, fitting their lips together like that, but not actually bad, he decided.

“There! That was fun, and I can cross it off my list now!” she said, happily swinging herself down and landing beside him adroitly. “I think I like kissing you the right way up better, though.”


	10. Bother (F!Hawke/Fenris)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Bodahn really did put up with a lot, didn't he? (E Rated)

The books spread out on the table in the little upper-floor study were long forgotten, her notes with their formulae and recipes and sketches of herbs and roots and flowers were in a disarray and scattered; some had drifted to the stone parquet below like so many flakes of parchment snow.

She did not care one single whit. Fenris was buried in her to the hilt, one hand fisted in her short hair as he moved with tortuously slow strokes in and out of her. Low gasps of sound came from both their throats and her fingers dug into the table top to better anchor herself, the hard edge of it pressed against her belly as his hips snapped her forward against it.

The friction was maddening and beautiful; she was hungry for it, wanting more. He felt so good, hot and hard inside that hollow ache of her own arousal, filling her up; she was certain she was separately aware of each bit of his cock’s length as he moved. The broad, flanged head stretched her wider as he thrust, then dragged back against the wildly sensitive patch of skin just inside her; she heard herself making small, needy sounds in her throat every time he did it and didn’t care about that, either.

“Maker, Fenris,” Hawke gasped against the tabletop. “Move faster, damn you!”

A low, velvet chuckle was all that greeted her from somewhere behind and she pounded one small fist on the table petulantly.

“Messere?” They both froze. A familiar voice, warm and avuncular, and very nearby. The downstairs study? “Messere, is that you up there?”

Hawke had to swallow hard a few times before she could trust her voice not to waver treacherously. “Yes, Bodahn! Just… getting a bit finished!”

Fenris, shockingly, laughed again and snapped his hips; she repressed a tearing groan and cast a reproachful glance over her shoulder at him. “Just helping you finish,” he whispered innocently, and she couldn’t help but laugh even as he thrust himself into her again, harder and faster than he had before.

“Bastard,” she swore under her breath, and he chuckled again. Sure, now he fucked her as hard as she wanted him to!

“Well, I was just getting a bit of dusting done, Messere!” came Bodahn’s voice again, a little nearer this time. Perhaps at the base of the staircase. “If I’ll not be a bother, I’ll come up and work around you, then.”

“Yes!” Hawke cried out as Fenris’s hand snaked around to find the pearl of nerves at the join of her legs, then bit at her lip, shuddering herself to pieces under his fingers. “I mean, no! That is, uh, yes, you’ll be a bother!”

There was a long pause from below. Fenris, damn him and bless him, continued to fuck her into the tabletop; his own breathing was growing rough and ragged and she recognized the sounds he made when his own climax was approaching. Good, because she’d not last too long either, not with his fingers and his cock working on her together.

“Are you… quite all right, Messere?” Bodahn asked finally, sounding more worried than suspicious.

With a sudden hot shock, her muscles convulsed and she was coming hard and silently, muffling her cries against the wood of the table, sweat dripping down her thighs and soaking into the shoved-down trousers bunched at her knees. A second later Fenris followed her, arching over her back and biting into the nape of her neck to contain his own sounds.

“Never better!” she called out brightly, and with absolutely perfect honesty.


End file.
